01 Summoned-Summoned (13 page)

For one moment, I think he's going to pull the sale. Like he suddenly had a change of heart, and he's going to become my fuckin' sponsor to get clean.

For that one moment, I know I would kill him.

Then he hands over the vials and syringes. I pay, place the unopened Pepsi on the end table, and leave.

Time to catch me a wabbit.

***

Once I'm on the road, the hum in my head lightens. I have every intention to track this endorsement for humanity and bring him back to Karl. The hum is pleased. 

I don't know what Karl does with these people. Sometimes, I wish I cared more but I'm either too busy tracking or too busy forgetting. Besides, caring makes me do stupid things, like convince myself I can do something about this madness. Then I remember who is in control, and it's certainly not me.

This Robert guy is probably a dinglefondler, anyway. I have strong reservations about this “kids camp” past time of his.

At a red light, I shuffle through the case file and find the address. He lives in Surprise. I'm there in twenty-five minutes.

The neighborhood is quiet for a late afternoon. Robert's house is on a corner lot, built in the last five years, cookie cutter style. Phoenix suburban planning is overseen by the Borg. I park to the side on the curb, head up the walk to the front door, and ring the doorbell. 

My plan is simple: force him back with the gun, give him a round of benzos on the house, and wait for him to slump over. I'll bring my car into the garage, drag his ass out, and handcuff him. Then we will be on our merry way.

No one answers the door, so I ring again and follow up with a knock. 

Nothing.

Maybe he's at the park, pretending to feed the ducks. That's where all the perverts hang out, I imagine.

I turn to my car, then stop. A newspaper is laying in the carport. I jog over and pick it up. The Sunday paper.

I'm fairly certain today is Thursday.

The hum's second cousin, Panic, becomes a squatter in my chest. 

I don't have days to wait for his return. My luck, he's on a mission in India or something.

Dammit.

I throw down the paper and storm back to my car. Muttering half-formed sentences, I yank the door shut and slam the car into reverse. I'm back on the freeway, racking my brain for a way to find this guy. Nothing comes to mind. I don't even know his last name.

I need a vacation. Maybe I can convince Karl to give me a guaranteed week off every summer. I would go somewhere with more than a dozen trees and maybe water that isn't a glorified swimming pool. Any place that doesn't feel like Hell's picnic grounds would be fine with me.

That's probably where my jackalope is—escaping the heat. Where would someone like him go? Mexico, maybe. So he can get his spelunking and snorkeling on. Or maybe to that camp.

I nearly hit the brake.

The youth camp Robert volunteers at occurs every summer. 

Looks like I'm getting a working vacation.

***

A little time spent on the Internet turns up everything I need to know. Robert is a counselor at a science and art program in northern Arizona. The camp is in session right now. 

From the website gallery, I gather the camp has a few cabins and not much else. The hardest part will be sneaking around without being caught. Camp clearings don't offer a lot of places to hide.

I'll figure it out when I get there. I always do.

I punch the address into my phone GPS, double check I still have the benzo, and hit the road. Evening will have fallen by the time I arrive. Add on a few hours cursing the woodland trails until I find the camp, and Robert should be nestling down into his sleeping bag by the time I make an entrance.

Except for a pit stop at a convenience store for coffee, I drive straight through. My GPS is better than my intel lately and even guides me along the backwoods dirt roads. I park right before turning into the camp, then trek up the hill and scope out the situation.

Four cabins sit side by side. At either end of the camp stands a building. In the middle, a campfire surrounded by a dozen preteens wearing shorts and t-shirts. They're talking, laughing, bumping each other in the legs. A few nearby counselors put away skewers and hotdog buns, then gather in front of the kids.

“Time for songs,” a man says. 

He's not Robert. I haven't even seen Robert yet, but he has to be here.

I can't fail twice in a row. That's just not going to happen.

Since I have nothing to do until the happy campers are nestled into bed, I sprawl out in the pine needles on the ground and stare up at the dark sky. Stars are much brighter outside of the city. Syd probably knows why.

The kids begin singing. I tuck my hands behind my head and close my eyes. The voices sound so young. When I was this age, I found out my life belonged to Karl. I didn't even know what that meant, but I was scared of him for all of two weeks. Then life went back to normal.

When my turn came, I wanted to tell someone, talk to someone. There wasn't anyone. Not even Silvia—especially Silvia—could relate.

I grew to resent the loneliness. 

That changed when I experienced first-hand what a wish does to our brains. Now I'm just thankful no one else is like me. The world has enough monsters.

After the campers finish up their songs, they trail their way to the four cabins and disappear inside. Another thirty minutes or so passes, and a counselor goes by and makes sure all the cabin indoor lights are off. Then the counselors sit around the campfire like it's the office water cooler.

I roll onto my stomach, use my arm as a pillow, and wait.

The counselors talk. They eat. They talk some more.

Then they pour dirt on the campfire and head toward one of the larger buildings. I push up to my knees.

Robert. He is among them. He's a pretty tall dude. Easy to keep track of now that I've spotted him.

I'm vewy, vewy quiet as I pull to a crouch and fix my sight on my prey. My hands are itching to stab a needle into his veins. Maybe he'll like the benzos. Jesse sure does. 

They just make me sleep. I don't really see the point, considering I can do that without treating my arm like a pin cushion.

My brain catches up with what I'm watching, and my heart slams. 

I have a problem.

All five counselors share a single cabin. 

I have no idea how to get to Robert.

Another twenty minutes passes before I'm convinced everyone is inside for the night. I make my way down the hill and come up behind the staff cabin. A window sits high on the side and another sits at the same height on the back. I stretch to peer through them, but I can't see anything.

If Robert is near the front, I might be able to stab a needle into his arm and lug him out without anyone noticing, but I doubt it. Doesn't matter, because I have no idea which bed is his. It's too dark to see inside, and the angle isn't helping.

I could take hostages, but that goes against the low key thing. The only other option rattling around my brain is convincing one of the kiddies to lure out Robert. That kind of goes against the whole not wanting to be a douche canoe thing though.

So I'm screwed.

The hum kicks up, the ever present reminder that my morals have no place in this life.

A door bangs closed. I slink around the side of the counselor cabin. Two kids head toward the building on the opposite side of the camp.

I trail them from a distance, thankful for the lamps on the front of each cabin since I didn't bring a flashlight. 

My foresight is outstanding.

The kids enter the building, the door slamming behind them. I pick up my pace and go around the back. The only window is frosted. This must be the bathrooms.

A plan crops up in my head. It's a little devious, but I think that ship has sailed for me. Hell, I doubt that ship was ever in the harbor.

I rap on the window. Loudly.

A second of silence. Then the kids scream like something right out of a B-rated horror movie.

I expect the kids to go charging out of the bathroom, but they don't. They're just screaming. And screaming.

Good thing I'm not a serial killer out here with a chainsaw. These counselors are worthless.

I rap again. The screams sharpen.

The staff cabin erupts into chaos. The numbnuts have finally heard their charges wailing in terror.

Three of the counselors make a run toward the bathroom facilities. The other two break off and head for the sleeping cabins. 

I squint. Robert is one of the two. He's making his way toward the far end. I bolt for the row. My lungs struggle with the thin air. I push forward, arching wide and coming up behind the cabin.  Robert is inside. His voice carries, asking the kids if they are alright.

I crouch behind the building, then reach up and tap my knuckle against the window.

More screams. 

I have to make this worth my effort. Make sure Robert reacts the way I want him to. So I beat my fist against the wall.

Robert yells, “Stay right here!”

The door slams at the front.

He bounces around the corner. I lunge up and sock him in the gut. He doubles over. 

I grab the syringe from my jacket pocket, yank off the cap, and plunge it into his neck. He tries to rear up, but I swing my knee to his shoulder and shove down. He falters, then collapses.

I clench the back of his shirt and run. My God, I have never run so fast in my life. Uphill. Dragging all one-hundred and eighty thousand convulsing pounds. I think he's trying to struggle, but the drugs are swarming his veins.

At the top of the hill, panting and unable to breathe, I shove him hard. He tumbles down the other side. I hurry after him, my soles sliding on the pine needles.

His form is laying at the bottom of the hill. Just as I reach him, he jerks upright. Then he takes off.

“No, no, no! You're not supposed to run away!” I growl and charge after him. 

He is obviously disoriented, because he's running from the camp and farther into the woods. Here's all the damn trees I wanted.

My hand goes to another syringe in my pocket. I have a brand new set, and I will use every last one to take this pissant down if I have to.

He stumbles on a log and falls into a tree. His head must be spinning. Mine is, and not just from the choir hum. The forest has that effect.

He glances at me. I leap on his back, knocking him to the ground. He tries to push up. I stab the syringe into his arm, followed by one more for good measure.

He falls flat on his face. Hopefully I didn't just kill the guy.

I crawl off and check that his chest is still moving. He's breathing, but his brain is offline. I drag him the rest of the way to my car and struggle to shove his limp body into the backseat.

This is a better workout than the gym.

Once he's shackled, I dodge around the car to the driver seat and floor it.

***

Robert is groaning and making generally unwell sounds in the back of the car by the time we reach the desert. His head rests against the passenger seat.

He mumbles something I can't make out. I suspect he's cursing me and all of my heirs. 

Too late, buddy. Someone else got to that first.

He sits straight. 

I jump, then glance at him in the rear view mirror. “How you feeling?”

His face is a little bloody. Some parcels are damaged during shipping. That's just how it goes.

“Fuck you,” he says, quite clearly.

“That's not a very camp-friendly mouth,” I say.

His eyes lower to his lap. He's just noticed the shackles.

He's either going to try break them like he thinks he's King Kong—some of my victims give an applause-worthy performance—or he's going to sink into despair. I have no preference. It's all reruns.

He clears his throat. “What the hell is going on?”

“You'll find out in a few minutes,” I say.

Something clunks me on the back of my head. My face hits the steering wheel. The car swerves and then slides down a shallow embankment.

I slam on the brakes, burst out of the car, and throw open the backseat. He tries to dodge out, but I shove him back and jab another needle into his arm. He twitches. I yank out the syringe from his flesh and stand, waiting.

He sinks back into slumber.

When I deliver him to the mansion, it's not even sunrise. The guards are ready and waiting.

I have no idea what daylight is going to bring for him. For me, though, the hum is gone. 

For now.

***

The sun is up by the time I pull into my carport. There are no other vehicles. I grab the case file and trudge across the yard.

My muscles ache. My eyes burn. I just want to pass out on my bed for a few hours. Dirt and pine needles fall to the carpet as I step inside. I stop and look down, then sigh.

My fingers have blood dried on them. My hair is stiff with sweat. My arms have scratches from scuffling with Counselor Robert.

I probably should clean up.

I detour to the kitchen to cram the case file into the trash, then force myself through a shower before dropping onto my bed. My whole body protests, from my neck and shoulders down to my knees and calves. Even my knuckles hurt.

With a final effort, I crawl under the blankets and fall into blissful unconsciousness.

A vibrating bang jolts me upright. Someone is knocking on the window.

How the hell did Robert find me? I scramble for the gun in my nightstand.

Then Syd yells, “Hurry up, Dim! It's hot out here!”

I stare at the curtains. She is a raging lunatic. 

“Coming,” I say, though I don't know if loud enough for her to hear. 

I put the gun back in the nightstand, slip on pants, and meet her at the front door.

She tilts her head. “Did I wake you?”

“No, Syd, we were playing hide-and-seek. Congrats, you won.” I step aside.

She leans in for a kiss, then stops. Her eyes fix on my arms. “Rough night?”

“It's always a rough night,” I mutter and head into the kitchen.

She follows and slides up to the breakfast bar. “Do you have to work today?”

“God, I hope not.” I offer her a bottled water from the refrigerator.